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The Long Walk
The Long Walk
The Long Walk
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The Long Walk

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

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In this #1 national bestseller, master storyteller Stephen King, writing as Richard Bachman, tells the tale of the contestants of a grueling walking competition where there can only be one winner—the one that survives.

Against the wishes of his mother, sixteen-year-old Ray Garraty is about to compete in the annual grueling match of stamina and wits known as the Long Walk. One hundred boys must keep a steady pace of four miles per hour without ever stopping...with the winner being awarded “The Prize”—anything he wants for the rest of his life. But, as part of this national tournament that sweeps through a dystopian America year after year, there are some harsh rules that Garraty and ninety-nine others must adhere to in order to beat out the rest. There is no finish line—the winner is the last man standing. Contestants cannot receive any outside aid whatsoever. Slow down under the speed limit and you’re given a warning. Three warnings and you’re out of the game—permanently...
LanguageEnglish
PublisherScribner
Release dateJan 1, 2016
ISBN9781501141324
Author

Stephen King

Stephen King is the author of more than sixty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. His recent work includes the short story collection You Like It Darker, Holly, Fairy Tale, Billy Summers, If It Bleeds, The Institute, Elevation, The Outsider, Sleeping Beauties (cowritten with his son Owen King), and the Bill Hodges trilogy: End of Watch, Finders Keepers, and Mr. Mercedes (an Edgar Award winner for Best Novel and a television series streaming on Peacock). His novel 11/22/63 was named a top ten book of 2011 by The New York Times Book Review and won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Mystery/Thriller. His epic works The Dark Tower, It, Pet Sematary, Doctor Sleep, and Firestarter are the basis for major motion pictures, with It now the highest-grossing horror film of all time. He is the recipient of the 2020 Audio Publishers Association Lifetime Achievement Award, the 2018 PEN America Literary Service Award, the 2014 National Medal of Arts, and the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. He lives in Bangor, Maine, with his wife, novelist Tabitha King. 

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Reviews for The Long Walk

Rating: 4.019364526911619 out of 5 stars
4/5

2,014 ratings81 reviews

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  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Didn't like how it ended, but I enjoyed the rest. I feel like we need more background (what is the time period? What has happened in America that this is taking place? etc
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    entwickelt einen starken Sog und raubt gleichzeitig den Atem.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Fantastic story. Originally a short story included in The Bachman Books, this story has a great premise. Times are hard, and 100 boys begin a marathon in hopes of being the one remaining that wins a fortune that will enable them to take care of their families. This story has great character development, and you wind up feeling gut-wrenching empathy for the boys as they are "eliminated" from the race one-by-one. This would be one of my favorite Stephen King stories.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    The Long Walk was originally published under Stephen King's pseudonym, Richard Bachman, back in the 1970's. Now that readers know better, it's clear that it's part of Stephen King's oeuvre, but there's still a nasty quality to The Long Walk, as well as the rest of the Bachman books, that isn't always present in Stephen King's regular work. Despite the horrific subject matter, King usually writes with some element of love, hope, and optimism, but the Bachman books are another story.The Long Walk is a short, simple story set in a near-future America, where a group of 100 boys are given the opportunity to participate in The Long Walk, a miles-long trek along the eastern coast. But here's the kicker: participants must maintain a steady speed of 4 miles per hour. If they drop below that speed, they are given three warnings before being shot. The last man standing receives anything he wants for the rest of his life. People are allowed to watch the Long Walk as the participants move south along the coast, and many people regard this as prime entertainment. At the beginning of the story, the 100 boys are full of naive excitement, talking about what made them sign up for the Walk in the first place and what they'd ask for if they win. But the story quickly becomes suspenseful and gruesome as the boys are besieged by cramps and illnesses and are forced to watch their new friends die. The story is told from sixteen-year-old Ray Garrison's point of view, and since the entire novel takes place as the boys are walking, many of the pages are devoted to Ray's internal musings and the conversations he has with his fellow walkers. This is where the novel achieves most of its depth. The boys begin to ask pointed questions about life, death, and the meaning of the Long Walk, which mirror many of the questions that were being asked at the time about the Vietnam War. It's also interesting to watch the characters form alliances and enemies within their small group, and how these alliances change throughout the Walk. There aren't any major plot twists, and there aren't any big events to propel the story. The descriptions are often graphic and detailed, and after awhile, the reader begins to experience the same exhaustion and claustrophobia as the Walkers. This makes for a powerful and visceral reading experience, and even though the novel was short, I found myself needing to take a break every few chapters. It's definitely not King's most sophisticated writing, and for anyone familiar with his work, it's clear that it was written early in his career, but The Long Walk is still sharp and effective.For readers who like dark, suspenseful stories without fancy plot gimmicks. The rest of the Bachman books are obviously good read-alikes. Rage has a similarly claustrophobic feel, but may be hard to track down, as the story is out of print. However, it can be found in The Bachman Books, a collection of the first four Bachman titles, which includes The Long Walk.The idea of government-sponsored death as entertainment should be familiar to anyone who's read The Hunger Games. For someone looking for a more violent interpretation of a similar premise should try Battle Royale by Koushun Takami, which was labeled violent exploitation when it was first published. This story follows a group of ninth-graders, who are confined to a small, isolated island and forced to kill each other, as part of the ultimate reality TV show.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Walking. It's not so difficult. But for these 100 boys who have to keep at a pace of 4 miles an hour, endlessly, it becomes near torture.

    This simple seeming premise was executed in such a chilling way because it just revolved around boys walking. No more, no less. But in the span of their time, we see a corrupt world, an eerie spectator game that involves death, casual shootings, and musings on what it means to dig deep.

    There is not much plot, as mentioned, but still. This book was entirely captivating from beginning to end.
    Each character is unique, but at the base of it all, there's only the last sounds of the gun.

    I was biting my lips at the end of every chapter.
    This is a horror story, but not in the typical monster-in-the-dark, scare-me type novel. It's a slow horror that creeps in after the hundredth mile. It builds up on you because you're starting to realize that you want all of these characters to survive, even the angry Barkovitch. The miles keep going, the descriptions of the pain and the fear and the numbness... you almost imagine you can feel it too.

    The worst was watching McVries die. Especially because Garraty ignored their pact to try to get him to live. But the simple response, "No Ray, it's time to sit down."

    That is just chilling. And heart-breaking.

    I am not certain I appreciate the ending (especially as it seemed to end a little too abruptly), but this is definitely a book worth reading.

    3.5 stars rounded up. Recommended for anyone who likes Stephen King. And for anyone who wants to read a bit of a dark book.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    It's pretty unbelievable that one can write about walking for a couple hundred pages. Leave it to the horror/ gross out master himself.

    This is an older book, it doesn't flow as well as his newer ones, I can see the tactics he's using, and it really helps.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    About:Whenever I start reading a King book, I have high expectations. I'm happy to say my favorite author delivered here yet again.The Long Walk is an annual event that begins on each first of May in Maine. One hundred teenage boys are made to walk on a stretch of road for hundreds of miles and through several states. If anyone slows to under four miles per hour they get a warning and after three warnings they are shot dead. Who is in charge of all this? A man called the Major. When does the Long Walk end? When there is one person left standing he will win the Grand Prize, which means he will have whatever he wants for the rest of his life. There is no established finish line and no stopping of any kind. If anyone stops for more than 30 seconds, first warning is issued. Each walker is not to receive any outside help either. Armed guards follow the boys on trucks on the side of the road, gauging their speed with computers.This national sport is televised and as the boys walk, spectators can be seen on the sidelines cheering them or just staring at the gruesome sight. As The Walk progresses and there are fewer and fewer left standing, the crowds get bigger and wilder.As the boys walk, the soldiers provide them with canteens full of water anytime and food packets at 9am each morning. These are the same armed guards who shoot them. The protagonist is 16 year old Raymond Davis Garraty from Maine. While Garraty walks, the few boys that are walking with him become friends to him. Peter McVries, Arthur Baker, Hank Olson, Collie Parker and a few others start to refer to themselves as The Musketeers. My thoughts: Stephen King has said that The Long Walk is the first novel he ever wrote and he started it eight years before Carrie was published. I was surprised to find that this book is a bit dystopian in nature. It takes places in the near future where America is ruled by the police, not the government. Garraty's inner monologue gives insight into his good nature. As he walks, he wonders if he can win this whole thing but at the same time he doesn't want to see his friends die. The thought of seeing his girlfriend and his mom again is what keeps him going. He does wonder what he will do when he finally sees them in the crowd. What else will he have to look forward to after that?He and McVries become best friends on The Walk and it's interesting to see these two help each other out because essentially, only one can win. The Walk is gruesome in itself. It's a sad, hopeless scenario. As can be expected some of the boys go insane while others suffer illnesses that eventually lead to death. Endurance is key, mental as well as physical. While they walk, the boys talk about life and the reasons why they signed up for what is basically suicide.The characters are all well written, I think that's a given with King. Garraty and McVries were my favorites.The police, are always there, a menacing presence. As is usual with King, here is the struggle of good verses evil. There is symbolism within the story. I think the walk itself represents the human condition, the journey we all take. Each person is different, each struggles in different ways. "They walked on, somehow in step, although all three of them were bent forever in different shapes by the pains that pulled them."p.358, The Long WalkAnother thing I noticed while reading is the similarity to reality tv within the storyline. We've got shows like Survivor and Amazing Race where the contestants become reality tv celebs. The boys in The Walk become celebrities as well, with the bloodthirsty crowd cheering them on, making banners and chanting their names. The storyline is so intense, as I read I was on the edge of my seat, I could almost hear the walkers footsteps on the blacktop. King drew me in completely. He takes the act of walking, and turns it into this gripping and emotional story. Masterful storytelling as per his usual. I could not put this book down, especially towards the end and I even dreamt about it. It invaded my sleep. If you've read this one, let me know how you interpret the ending. It's by no means a cliffhanger, but I do think it's up to interpretation. I found myself so drawn in, some of what happens at the end left me misty eyed. That's another thing King has a knack for, writing about the strong bonds of friendship. Friendships that form in the most unlikely of places. I recommend The Long Walk to any King fan and to readers looking to get caught up in a scary read that will completely suck you in and leave you stunned."They walked through the rainy dark like gaunt ghosts, and Garraty didn't like to look at them. They were the walking dead."p.349, The Long Walk
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A Stephen King I hadn't read. It reminds me a tiny bit of The Lottery and The Hunger Games. Very intersting.. what would you do in that situation kind of book.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This is one of Stephen Kings best. EVER. Written when he was quite young it is a raw and fast paced despite being a story that is about kids walking. Thats it. Walk and walk and dont stop. Dont fall below a certain speed or you'll get a warning. 3 warnings earns you a ticket and you are out of the game...and by that I mean you get your head blown off.

    I cannot recommend this highly enough. It has all the hallmarks of classic Stephen King and perfectly illustrates a dystopian future that is entirely possible. It is dark and mesmerising and will leave you asking what just happened, what did I do, what did I participate in?? You will feel dirty for having watched this and let it happen without doing anything.

    JUST FRIGGING LOVED IT!
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I don't have any negatives for this book. I started reading yesterday and didn't stop until I finished. It's a harrowing, horrific tale of survival, friendship and human endurance. Recommended to everyone; a favourite book of mine.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I'm going back through and rereading the Bachman Books trying to decide which one was Stephen King's best. This is one of the front-runners about Ray Garraty, "Maine's Own" making The Long Walk across Maine. If you walk too slow, you get a warning and too many warnings and the guards shoot you dead. I think what keeps this from being a five star read for me--and I'm admittedly nitpicking--is that I wish King would have shown more madness from the Walkers experiencing sleep deprivation and fatigue in the final third of the book. After several days the remaining Walkers should have broken down more mentally. This is a strong 4.5 star read, however, and highly recommended. It's intriguing how King maintains and keeps reader interest in a story with almost no flashbacks and backstory. It's all about the walk and Walkers, as it should be. And I loved how dark King painted the Mayor character. Great stuff! At the beginning of each chapter he starts with a quote, often one from a game show host. The reality game show element of this story reminds me a lot of The Running Man, another Bachman book. From a formatting on the Kindle perspective, there is an annoying apostrophe spacing error with each 's so it comes out looking like this this: man 's man's. Not sure what happened there, as the rest of the formatting is solid. I loved the ending of The Long Walk. It's much darker than most King endings but in line with most of the Bachman book endings. This is one reason why King chose the Bachman pen name, so he didn't feel obligated to end things as positively. Then again if you read King's Pet Semetery that doesn't exactly end all warm and fuzzy either.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A somewhat lesser-known King book, but one I found very enjoyable. I read it in the span of three days, simply because I couldn't put it down.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Imagine a lottery style system that doesn't just pick a number, but gives the person who holds the ticket a chance to compete for the prize. Well, that is in a nutshell what the "Long Walk" is. Whoever can walk the longest wins, only problem is, if you stop walking, your dead.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I have to say this is one of my favorite stories of stephen King it is a short story but it is different and you just can't put it down. I really would recommend this one.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This little gem is one of King's finest works. A group of boys representing every state in the country vie for fame and fortune in cruel contest of endurance and attrition. Behind a riveting story is a larger brilliant metaphor subtly drawn.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Every year, 100 teenage boys are accepted into the Long Walk. The object? To walk farther than all the other boys. They walk constantly, not allowed to slow down or stop. If a boy does slow down below 4 miles an hour, he is warned three times and then shot. At first this book was like a car wreck... it was gruesome and terrible, but I couldn't seem to look away. But once I looked past the gore, I was fascinated with the boys' motivation for being in the Walk. And, of course, I wanted to know who would end up winning. Pick this one up if you like psychological thrillers and don't mind blood and guts.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This was one of the first Stephen King novels that I read and I enjoyed it tremendously. Give most authors a story about kids walking for miles on end and they'll never produce something that is worth publishing.Give it to Stephen King and the Long Walk becomes something you cannot put down.This story is in deed about kids taking a long walk, with a Stephen King twist. Only one kid can win, the surivor.A must read.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Possibly King's most pessimistic work, which might have something to do with it being one of his best (and my favorite Bachman book).
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    this is a very, very looooong walk indeed. there are two stephen kings. One wants to be known as the author of some fairly and really good books, and the other wants to crank out "B" novels. Richard Bachman should have been published by Gold Medal originals in mass market paperback. All of Bachman's books (with the possible exception of "The Regulators") deal with one subject and the plot and story is linear. There is no subplot to speak of, and the characters are forgettable as you flip the last page. The only thing the Bachman books do is keep you turning the page, mostly through description. I read them because I love Gold Medal originals!
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    An under-rated Bachman/King classic. I appreciate it for its social criticism (more relevant today than when it was written, in my opinion) and, as an endurance athlete, for its depiction of an endurance event taken to its extreme.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Now here's something. A virtually unknown Stephen King novel that is excellent. A vaguely science fiction novel in a fascist state that runs an annual competition called 'The Long Walk'. A group of one hundred young people (you must be under eighteen) start at the Maine/Canada border and walk south. You must walk a minimum of four miles an hour. Fall below that and you receive a warning. After three warnings you are shot by the impassive soldiers following behind in a half-track. The last Walker wins.I'd always figured that Rage would be the Bachman book that was 'worth reading' because of its notorious reputation if nothing else. And yet The Long Walk blows the so-so Rage to pieces. It is a much better book. Through the course of a novel, you come to know a small group of boys, not wanting to become too attached, knowing that they must all die for the Walk to end. King is excellent not just in detailing the constant tension of literally being followed by your would be killers, but in describing all the microscopic, miserable little details of the death march. You feel like you are marching with them as the scenery rarely changes and their bodies fail.It's very similar to a book I just finished recently, Battle Royale. It is leagues better in quality though. Battle Royale was trashy pulp trying to defend itself by pretending to be something more. The Long Walk is something more, disguised as trashy pulp.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This is one of the most disturbing stories that I have ever read. The horror of these young men walking for the Prize and becoming friends and watching each other get their "tickets", well, it is just nauseau inducing. A well written horror story that should be read by everyone who enjoys horror and likes to think. Every aspect of this story is scary to a bone deep level. The crowds, the possbility that this is (or could be) our world, the boys themselves....So good!
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I like King's writing but not horror, which makes it hard to read him. I've read several of his books but not even close to his full body of work. However, after reading The Long Walk, I have some thoughts about him in general.Writing stamina. The guy's got the stamina of a long-distance runner, and I don't mean just marathoners, more like those people that run 100 miles all at once. He claimed to have written The Running Man in 72 hours. Freaking amazing. The ability to put 100,000 words into some coherent form doesn't qualify you as a good writer, but there must be some sort of prize for that. King operates like a story is running through his head and he's just transcribing it. Just wonderful.Characters. His characters is why I like him. They're often quirky, spontaneous and irreverent. The Long Walk demonstrates this with so many players in the plot, there's always someone to love and someone to hate (Green Mile, anyone?).Blank page. Some writers work off an outline, others just start writing and let the story unfold without preconception and always a blank page ahead of them. Personally, I can't function without an outline. Maybe the blank page approach is what keeps his work spontaneous, but at times it drones on. In The Long Walk, I certainly had the sense I'd been walking forever, but sometimes not in a good way. At times, the story waffles and I had the feeling the story still had gaps (I'm still not sure what it meant to be squaded).Scenes and endings. King is a master of scene-building. I can still recall scenes in his books that I read years ago. Sometimes they make me laugh, sometimes cringe. Sometimes both at the same time. However, I haven't always been enamored with his endings and I'm a ending person. I can deal with a mediocre ride that has a stunning ending more so than the opposite. It's like sex. The beginning and middle are fun, but it's all about the ending. In The Long Walk, I was left with one thought at the end: Seriously?Adverbs. I know this is one of his earlier writings so it's not a reflection of his current work, but it shows you how writers evolve. The Long Walk is fully polluted with adverbs. I'm sure he'd cringe if he read it today. Maybe laugh, too.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This nice piece of King juvenilia presents a fairly cohesive alternate history setting and strong characters. Unfortunately, the prose is a bit jerky and repetitive and it hasn't aged too well--the vision of the future here is definitely dated. I'm impressed that King was able to stretch what could easily seem to be a somewhat flimsy concept into such a fairly thorough novel--though I do think it could have been trimmed down by about fifty pages.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    What a strange and unexpected topic. Walking. One hundred boys walking. That's it. How do you make a story out of that? Well Stephen King does it, and - even after having read it - I can't begin to fathom how he not only managed it, but made it amazing. This was a great story with incredible characters, stories, settings, and emotion. I read an hour or two of it on the treadmill which made it all the better.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Kings bestes Buch. Konnte ich nicht zur Seite legen und habe es in einer Nacht durchgelesen.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    The First of May... Right now I'm having mixed feelings about this book. I like the premise and the characters and I did enjoy the story but while they kept walking and walking, I kept waiting and waiting for all these questions in my head to get answered and they really never did. I just personally don't care for ambiguous stories and endings. I wanted to know more about the reason and purpose of the race and what they got out of it in the end but unfortunately it looks like I'll be waiting for as long as they walked.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I read an article about the book you didn't know Stephen King wrote, or something along those lines. So I had to check it out. I used to be a huge fan of Stephen King. The Dark Tower Series is one of my favorite series. I had high hopes for this book, the idea sounded pretty interesting. It was OK. I liked the characters he created. It got a little tedious and monotonous towards the end. I also still have some unanswered questions...like Why do they do this every year? All in all, it was alright, not sure I'd recommend it or have written an article about how this is THE Stephen King book to read....
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I've only read a handful of King's works. This one piqued my curiosity for some reason. I wasn't disappointed. The story got it's claws into me and didn't let go. Pretty disturbing stuff and a very intense read.In this day and age of over-the-top "reality" television, I could almost imagine something like this being televised in the not-too-distant future (Pay-Per-View). What a crazy world we live in.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    One of the few books that I actually threw across the room because I was so engaged in the story and I couldn't bear what was coming. Such an emotional response is rare, and I only had this happen one other time. Not surprising it was also a Stephen King novel; "The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon". Both were gut wrenching reads that literally had my heart in my throat and my stomach tied in knots. Both of these books were so psychologically intense that I really did physically throw the books across the room. To get a reader that invested is rare, and after a few more years healing time I'll go back and read them both again.

Book preview

The Long Walk - Stephen King

Cover: The Long Walk, by Stephen King

Stephen King

Writing as Richard Bachman

The Long Walk

Praise for #1 New York Times bestselling author

STEPHEN KING

A master storyteller.

Los Angeles Times

The most wonderfully gruesome man on the planet.

USA Today

An undisputed master of suspense and terror.

The Washington Post

Stephen King knows exactly what scares you most.…

Esquire

King probably knows more about scary goings-on in confined, isolated places than anybody since Edgar Allan Poe.

Entertainment Weekly

America’s greatest living novelist.

Lee Child

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The Long Walk, by Stephen King, Scribner

This is for Jim Bishop and Burt Hatlen and Ted Holmes.

To me the Universe was all void of Life, or Purpose, of Volition, even of Hostility; it was one huge, dead, immeasurable Steam-engine, rolling on, in its dead indifference, to grind me limb from limb. O vast, gloomy, solitary Golgotha, and Mill of Death! Why was the Living banished thither companionless, conscious? Why, if there is no Devil; nay, unless the Devil is your God?

—Thomas Carlyle

I would encourage every American to walk as often as possible. It’s more than healthy; it’s fun.

—John F. Kennedy (1962)

"The pump don’t work

’Cause the vandals took the handle."

—Bob Dylan

PART ONE

STARTING OUT

Chapter 1

"Say the secret word and win a hundred dollars.

George, who are our first contestants?

George…? Are you there, George?"

—Groucho Marx

You Bet Your Life

An old blue Ford pulled into the guarded parking lot that morning, looking like a small, tired dog after a hard run. One of the guards, an expressionless young man in a khaki uniform and a Sam Browne belt, asked to see the blue plastic ID card. The boy in the back seat handed it to his mother. His mother handed it to the guard. The guard took it to a computer terminal that looked strange and out of place in the rural stillness. The computer terminal ate the card and flashed this on its screen:

GARRATY RAYMOND DAVIS

RD 1 POWNAL MAINE

ANDROSCOGGIN COUNTY

ID NUMBER 49-801-89

OK-OK-OK

The guard punched another button and all of this disappeared, leaving the terminal screen smooth and green and blank again. He waved them forward.

Don’t they give the card back? Mrs. Garraty asked. Don’t they—

No, Mom, Garraty said patiently.

Well, I don’t like it, she said, pulling forward into an empty space. She had been saying it ever since they set out in the dark of two in the morning. She had been moaning it, actually.

Don’t worry, he said without hearing himself. He was occupied with looking and with his own confusion of anticipation and fear. He was out of the car almost before the engine’s last asthmatic wheeze—a tall, well-built boy wearing a faded army fatigue jacket against the eight o’clock spring chill.

His mother was also tall, but too thin. Her breasts were almost nonexistent: token nubs. Her eyes were wandering and unsure, somehow shocked. Her face was an invalid’s face. Her iron-colored hair had gone awry under the complication of clips that was supposed to hold it in place. Her dress hung badly on her body as if she had recently lost a lot of weight.

Ray, she said in that whispery conspirator’s voice that he had come to dread. Ray, listen—

He ducked his head and pretended to tuck in his shirt. One of the guards was eating C rations from a can and reading a comic book. Garraty watched the guard eating and reading and thought for the ten thousandth time: It’s all real. And now, at last, the thought began to swing some weight.

There’s still time to change your mind—

The fear and anticipation cranked up a notch.

No, there’s no time for that, he said. The backout date was yesterday.

Still in that low conspirator’s voice that he hated: They’d understand, I know they would. The Major—

The Major would— Garraty began, and saw his mother wince. You know what the Major would do, Mom.

Another car had finished the small ritual at the gate and had parked. A boy with dark hair got out. His parents followed and for a moment the three of them stood in conference like worried baseball players. He, like some of the other boys, was wearing a light packsack. Garraty wondered if he hadn’t been a little stupid not to bring one himself.

You won’t change your mind?

It was guilt, guilt taking the face of anxiety. Although he was only sixteen, Ray Garraty knew something about guilt. She felt that she had been too dry, too tired, or maybe just too taken up with her older sorrows to halt her son’s madness in its seedling stage—to halt it before the cumbersome machinery of the State with its guards in khaki and its computer terminals had taken over, binding himself more tightly to its insensate self with each passing day, until yesterday, when the lid had come down with a final bang.

He put a hand on her shoulder. This is my idea, Mom. I know it wasn’t yours. I— He glanced around. No one was paying the slightest attention to them. I love you, but this way is best, one way or the other.

It’s not, she said, now verging on tears. Ray, it’s not, if your father was here, he’d put a stop to—

Well, he’s not, is he? He was brutal, hoping to stave off her tears… what if they had to drag her off? He had heard that sometimes that happened. The thought made him feel cold. In a softer voice he said, Let it go now, Mom. Okay? He forced a grin. Okay, he answered for her.

Her chin was still trembling, but she nodded. Not all right, but too late. There was nothing anyone could do.

A light wind sighed through the pines. The sky was pure blue. The road was just ahead and the simple stone post that marked the border between America and Canada. Suddenly his anticipation was greater than his fear, and he wanted to get going, get the show on the road.

I made these. You can take them, can’t you? They’re not too heavy, are they? She thrust a foil-wrapped package of cookies at him.

Yeah. He took them and then clutched her awkwardly, trying to give her what she needed to have. He kissed her cheek. Her skin was like old silk. For a moment he could have cried himself. Then he thought of the smiling, mustachioed face of the Major and stepped back, stuffing the cookies into the pocket of his fatigue jacket.

G’bye, Mom.

Goodbye, Ray. Be a good boy.

She stood there for a moment and he had a sense of her being very light, as if even the light puffs of breeze blowing this morning might send her sailing away like a dandelion gone to seed. Then she got back into the car and started the engine. Garraty stood there. She raised her hand and waved. The tears were flowing now. He could see them. He waved back and then as she pulled out he just stood there with his arms at his sides, conscious of how fine and brave and alone he must look. But when the car had passed back through the gate, forlornness struck him and he was only a sixteen-year-old boy again, alone in a strange place.

He turned back toward the road. The other boy, the dark-haired one, was watching his folks pull out. He had a bad scar along one cheek. Garraty walked over to him and said hello.

The dark-haired boy gave him a glance. Hi.

I’m Ray Garraty, he said, feeling mildly like an asshole.

I’m Peter McVries.

You are ready? Garraty asked.

McVries shrugged. I feel jumpy. That’s the worst.

Garraty nodded.

The two of them walked toward the road and the stone marker. Behind them, other cars were pulling out. A woman began screaming abruptly. Unconsciously, Garraty and McVries drew closer together. Neither of them looked back. Ahead of them was the road, wide and black.

That composition surface will be hot by noon, McVries said abruptly. I’m going to stick to the shoulder.

Garraty nodded. McVries looked at him thoughtfully.

What do you weigh?

Hundred and sixty.

I’m one-sixty-seven. They say the heavier guys get tired quicker, but I think I’m in pretty good shape.

To Garraty, Peter McVries looked rather more than that—he looked awesomely fit. He wondered who they were that said the heavier guys got tired quicker, almost asked, and decided not to. The Walk was one of those things that existed on apocrypha, talismans, legend.

McVries sat down in the shade near a couple of other boys, and after a moment, Garraty sat beside him. McVries seemed to have dismissed him entirely. Garraty looked at his watch. It was five after eight. Fifty-five minutes to go. Impatience and anticipation came back, and he did his best to squash them, telling himself to enjoy sitting while he could.

All of the boys were sitting. Sitting in groups and sitting alone; one boy had climbed onto the lowest branch of a pine overlooking the road and was eating what looked like a jelly sandwich. He was skinny and blond, wearing purple pants and a blue chambray shirt under an old green zip sweater with holes in the elbows. Garraty wondered if the skinny ones would last or burn out quickly.

The boys he and McVries had sat down next to were talking.

I’m not hurrying, one of them said. Why should I? If I get warned, so what? You just adjust, that’s all. Adjustment is the key word here. Remember where you heard that first.

He looked around and discovered Garraty and McVries.

More lambs to the slaughter. Hank Olson’s the name. Walking is my game. He said this with no trace of a smile at all.

Garraty offered his own name. McVries spoke his own absently, still looking off toward the road.

I’m Art Baker, the other said quietly. He spoke with a very slight Southern accent. The four of them shook hands all around.

There was a moment’s silence, and McVries said, Kind of scary, isn’t it?

They all nodded except Hank Olson, who shrugged and grinned. Garraty watched the boy in the pine tree finish his sandwich, ball up the waxed paper it had been in, and toss it onto the soft shoulder. He’ll burn out early, he decided. That made him feel a little better.

You see that spot right by the marker post? Olson said suddenly.

They all looked. The breeze made moving shadow-patterns across the road. Garraty didn’t know if he saw anything or not.

That’s from the Long Walk the year before last, Olson said with grim satisfaction. Kid was so scared he just froze up at nine o’clock.

They considered the horror of it silently.

Just couldn’t move. He took his three warnings and then at 9:02 AM they gave him his ticket. Right there by the starting post.

Garraty wondered if his own legs would freeze. He didn’t think so, but it was a thing you wouldn’t know for sure until the time came, and it was a terrible thought. He wondered why Hank Olson wanted to bring up such a terrible thing.

Suddenly Art Baker sat up straight. Here he comes.

A dun-colored jeep drove up to the stone marker and stopped. It was followed by a strange, tread-equipped vehicle that moved much more slowly. There were toy-sized radar dishes mounted on the front and back of this halftrack. Two soldiers lounged on its upper deck, and Garraty felt a chill in his belly when he looked at them. They were carrying army-type heavy-caliber carbine rifles.

Some of the boys got up, but Garraty did not. Neither did Olson or Baker, and after his initial look, McVries seemed to have fallen back into his own thoughts. The skinny kid in the pine tree was swinging his feet idly.

The Major got out of the jeep. He was a tall, straight man with a deep desert tan that went well with his simple khakis. A pistol was strapped to his Sam Browne belt, and he was wearing reflector sunglasses. It was rumored that the Major’s eyes were extremely light-sensitive, and he was never seen in public without his sunglasses.

Sit down, boys, he said. Keep Hint Thirteen in mind. Hint Thirteen was Conserve energy whenever possible.

Those who had stood sat down. Garraty looked at his watch again. It said 8:16, and he decided it was a minute fast. The Major always showed up on time. He thought momentarily of setting it back a minute and then forgot it.

I’m not going to make a speech, the Major said, sweeping them with the blank lenses that covered his eyes. I give my congratulations to the winner among your number, and my acknowledgments of valor to the losers.

He turned to the back of the jeep. There was a living silence. Garraty breathed deep of the spring air. It would be warm. A good day to walk.

The Major turned back to them. He was holding a clipboard. When I call your name, please step forward and take your number. Then go back to your place until it is time to begin. Do this smartly, please.

You’re in the army now, Olson whispered with a grin, but Garraty ignored it. You couldn’t help admiring the Major. Garraty’s father, before the Squads took him away, had been fond of calling the Major the rarest and most dangerous monster any nation can produce, a society-supported sociopath. But he had never seen the Major in person.

Aaronson.

A short, chunky farmboy with a sunburned neck gangled forward, obviously awed by the Major’s presence, and took his large plastic 1. He fixed it to his shirt by the pressure strip and the Major clapped him on the back.

Abraham.

A tall boy with reddish hair in jeans and a T-shirt. His jacket was tied about his waist schoolboy style and flapped wildly around his knees. Olson sniggered.

Baker, Arthur.

That’s me, Baker said, and got to his feet. He moved with deceptive leisure, and he made Garraty nervous. Baker was going to be tough. Baker was going to last a long time.

Baker came back. He had pressed his number 3 onto the right breast of his shirt.

Did he say anything to you? Garraty asked.

He asked me if it was commencing to come off hot down home, Baker said shyly. Yeah, he… the Major talked to me.

Not as hot as it’s gonna commence getting up here, Olson cracked.

Baker, James, the Major said.

It went on until 8:40, and it came out right. No one had ducked out. Back in the parking lot, engines started and a number of cars began pulling out—boys from the backup list who would now go home and watch the Long Walk coverage on TV. It’s on, Garraty thought, it’s really on.

When his turn came, the Major gave him number 47 and told him Good luck. Up close he smelled very masculine and somehow overpowering. Garraty had an almost insatiable urge to touch the man’s leg and make sure he was real.

Peter McVries was 61. Hank Olson was 70. He was with the Major longer than the rest. The Major laughed at something Olson said and clapped him on the back. I told him to keep a lot of money on short call, Olson said when he came back. And he told me to give ’em hell. Said he liked to see someone who was raring to rip. Give ’em hell, boy, he said.

Pretty good, McVries said, and then winked at Garraty. Garraty wondered what McVries had meant, winking like that. Was he making fun of Olson?

The skinny boy in the tree was named Stebbins. He got his number with his head down, not speaking to the Major at all, and then sat back at the base of his tree. Garraty was somehow fascinated with the boy.

Number 100 was a red-headed fellow with a volcanic complexion. His name was Zuck. He got his number and then they all sat and waited for what would come next.

Then three soldiers from the halftrack passed out wide belts with snap pockets. The pockets were filled with tubes of high-energy concentrate pastes. More soldiers came around with canteens. They buckled on the belts and slung the canteens. Olson slung his belt low on his hips like a gunslinger, found a Waifa chocolate bar, and began to eat it. Not bad, he said, grinning. He swigged from his canteen, washing down the chocolate, and Garraty wondered if Olson was just fronting, or if he knew something Garraty did not.

The Major looked them over soberly. Garraty’s wristwatch said 8:56—how had it gotten so late? His stomach lurched painfully.

All right, fellows, line up by tens, please. No particular order. Stay with your friends, if you like.

Garraty got up. He felt numb and unreal. It was as if his body now belonged to someone else.

Well here we go, McVries said at his elbow. Good luck, everyone.

Good luck to you, Garraty said, surprised.

McVries said: I need my fucking head examined. He looked suddenly pale and sweaty, not so awesomely fit as he had earlier. He was trying to smile and not making it. The scar stood out on his cheek like a wild punctuation mark.

Stebbins got up and ambled to the rear of the ten wide, ten deep queue. Olson, Baker, McVries, and Garraty were in the third row. Garraty’s mouth was dry. He wondered if he should drink some water. He decided against it. He had never in his life been so aware of his feet. He wondered if he might freeze and get his ticket on the starting line. He wondered if Stebbins would fold early—Stebbins with his jelly sandwich and his purple pants. He wondered if he would fold up first. He wondered what it would feel like if—

His wristwatch said 8:59.

The Major was studying a stainless steel pocket chronometer. He raised his fingers slowly, and everything hung suspended with his hand. The hundred boys watched it carefully, and the silence was awful and immense. The silence was everything.

Garraty’s watch said 9:00, but the poised hand did not fall.

Do it! Why doesn’t he do it?

He felt like screaming it out.

Then he remembered that his watch was a minute fast—you could set your watch by the Major, only he hadn’t, he had forgotten.

The Major’s fingers dropped. Luck to all, he said. His face was expressionless and the reflector sunglasses hid his eyes. They began to walk smoothly, with no jostling.

Garraty walked with them. He hadn’t frozen. Nobody froze. His feet passed beyond the stone marker, in parade-step with McVries on his left and Olson on his right. The sound of feet was very loud.

This is it, this is it, this is it.

A sudden insane urge to stop came to him. Just to see if they really meant business. He rejected the thought indignantly and a little fearfully.

They came out of the shade and into the sun, the warm spring sun. It felt good. Garraty relaxed, put his hands in his pockets, and kept step with McVries. The group began to spread out, each person finding his own stride and speed. The halftrack clanked along the soft shoulder, throwing thin dust. The tiny radar dishes turned busily, monitoring each Walker’s speed with a sophisticated on-board computer. Low speed cutoff was exactly four miles an hour.

Warning! Warning 88!

Garraty started and looked around. It was Stebbins. Stebbins was 88. Suddenly he was sure Stebbins was going to get his ticket right here, still in sight of the starting post.

Smart. It was Olson.

What? Garraty asked. He had to make a conscious effort to move his tongue.

The guy takes a warning while he’s still fresh and gets an idea of where the limit is. And he can sluff it easy enough—you walk an hour without getting a fresh warning, you lose one of the old ones. You know that.

Sure I know it, Garraty said. It was in the rule book. They gave you three warnings. The fourth time you fell below four miles an hour you were… well, you were out of the Walk. But if you had three warnings and could manage to walk for three hours, you were back in the sun again.

So now he knows, Olson said. And at 10:02, he’s in the clear again.

Garraty walked on at a good clip. He was feeling fine. The starting post dropped from sight as they breasted a hill and began descending into a long, pine-studded valley. Here and there were rectangular fields with the earth just freshly turned.

Potatoes, they tell me, McVries said.

Best in the world, Garraty answered automatically.

You from Maine? Baker asked.

Yeah, downstate. He looked up ahead. Several boys had drawn away from the main group, making perhaps six miles an hour. Two of them were wearing identical leather jackets, with what looked like eagles on the back. It was a temptation to speed up, but Garraty refused to be hurried. Conserve energy whenever possible—Hint 13.

Does the road go anywhere near your hometown? McVries asked.

About seven miles to one side. I guess my mother and my girlfriend will come to see me. He paused and added carefully: If I’m still walking, of course.

Hell, there won’t be twenty-five gone when we get downstate, Olson said.

A silence fell among them at that. Garraty knew it wasn’t so, and he thought Olson did, too.

Two other boys received warnings, and in spite of what Olson had said, Garraty’s heart lurched each time. He checked back on Stebbins. He was still at the rear, and eating another jelly sandwich. There was a third sandwich jutting from the pocket of his ragged green sweater. Garraty wondered if his mother had made them, and he thought of the cookies his own mother had given him—pressed on him, as if warding off evil spirits.

Why don’t they let people watch the start of a Long Walk? Garraty asked.

Spoils the Walkers’ concentration, a sharp voice said.

Garraty turned his head. It was a small dark, intense-looking boy with the number 5 pressed to the collar of his jacket. Garraty couldn’t remember his name. Concentration? he said.

Yes. The boy moved up beside Garraty. The Major has said it is very important to concentrate on calmness at the beginning of a Long Walk. He pressed his thumb reflectively against the end of his rather sharp nose. There was a bright red pimple there. I agree. Excitement, crowds, TV later. Right now all we need to do is focus. He stared at Garraty with his hooded dark brown eyes and said it again. Focus.

All I’m focusing on is pickin’ ’em up and layin’ ’em down, Olson said.

5 looked insulted. You have to pace yourself. You have to focus on yourself. You have to have a Plan. I’m Gary Barkovitch, by the way. My home is Washington, D.C.

I’m John Carter, Olson said. My home is Barsoom, Mars.

Barkovitch curled his lip in contempt and dropped back.

There’s one cuckoo in every clock, I guess, Olson said.

But Garraty thought Barkovitch was thinking pretty clearly—at least until one of the guards called out Warning! Warning 5! about five minutes later.

I’ve got a stone in my shoe! Barkovitch said waspishly.

The soldier didn’t reply. He dropped off the halftrack and stood on the shoulder of the road opposite Barkovitch. In his hand he held a stainless steel chronometer just like the Major’s. Barkovitch stopped completely and took off his shoe. He shook a tiny pebble out of it. Dark, intense, his olive-sallow face shiny with sweat, he paid no attention when the soldier called out, Second warning, 5. Instead, he smoothed his sock carefully over the arch of his foot.

Oh-oh, Olson said. They had all turned around and were walking backward.

Stebbins, still at the tag end, walked past Barkovitch without looking at him. Now Barkovitch was all alone, slightly to the right of the white line, retying his shoe.

Third warning, 5. Final warning.

There was something in Garraty’s belly that felt like a sticky ball of mucus. He didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t look away. He wasn’t conserving energy whenever possible by walking backward, but he couldn’t help that, either. He could almost feel Barkovitch’s seconds shriveling away to nothing.

Oh, boy, Olson said. That dumb shit, he’s gonna get his ticket.

But then Barkovitch was up. He paused to brush some road dirt from the knees of his pants. Then he broke into a trot, caught up with the group, and settled back into his walking pace. He passed Stebbins, who still didn’t look at him, and caught up with Olson.

He grinned, brown eyes glittering. See? I just got myself a rest. It’s all in my Plan.

Maybe you think so, Olson said, his voice higher than usual. "All I see that you got is three warnings. For your lousy minute and a half you got to walk three… fucking… hours. And why in hell did you need a rest? We just started, for Chrissake!"

Barkovitch looked insulted. His eyes burned at Olson. We’ll see who gets his ticket first, you or me, he said. It’s all in my Plan.

Your Plan and the stuff that comes out of my asshole bear a suspicious resemblance to each other, Olson said, and Baker chuckled.

With a snort, Barkovitch strode past them.

Olson couldn’t resist a parting shot. Just don’t stumble, buddy. They don’t warn you again. They just…

Barkovitch didn’t even look back and Olson gave up, disgusted.

At thirteen past nine by Garraty’s watch (he had taken the trouble to set it back the one minute), the Major’s jeep breasted the hill they had just started down. He came past them on the shoulder opposite the pacing halftrack and raised a battery-powered loudhailer to his lips.

I’m pleased to announce that you have finished the first mile of your journey, boys. I’d also like to remind you that the longest distance a full complement of Walkers has ever covered is seven and three-quarters miles. I’m hoping you’ll better that.

The jeep spurted ahead. Olson appeared to be considering this news with startled, even fearful, wonder. Not even eight miles, Garraty thought. It wasn’t nearly as far as he would have guessed. He hadn’t expected anyone—not even Stebbins—to get a ticket until late afternoon at least. He thought of Barkovitch. All he had to do was fall below speed once in the next hour.

Ray? It was Art Baker. He had taken off his coat and slung it over one arm. Any particular reason you came on the Long Walk?

Garraty unclipped his canteen and had a quick swallow of water. It was cool and good. It left beads of moisture on his upper lip and he licked them off. It was good, good to feel things like that.

I don’t really know, he said truthfully.

Me either. Baker thought for a moment. Did you go out for track or anything? In school?

No.

Me either. But I guess it don’t matter, does it? Not now.

No, not now, Garraty said.

Conversation lulled. They passed through a small village with a country store and a gas station. Two old men sat on folding lawn-chairs outside the gas station, watching them with hooded and reptilian old men’s eyes. On the steps of the country store, a young woman held up her tiny son so he could see them. And a couple of older kids, around twelve, Garraty judged, watched them out of sight wistfully.

Some of the boys began to speculate about how much ground they had covered. The word came back that a second pacer halftrack had been dispatched to cover the half a dozen boys in the vanguard… they were now completely out of sight. Someone said they were doing seven miles an hour. Someone else said it was ten. Someone told them authoritatively that a guy up ahead was flagging and had been warned twice. Garraty wondered why they weren’t catching up to him if that was true.

Olson finished the Waifa chocolate bar he had started back at the border and drank some water. Some of the others were also eating, but Garraty decided to wait until he was really hungry. He had heard the concentrates were quite good. The astronauts got them when they went into space.

A little after ten o’clock, they passed a sign that said LIMESTONE 10 MI. Garraty thought about the only Long Walk his father had ever let him go to. They went to Freeport and watched them walk through. His mother had been with them. The Walkers were tired and hollow-eyed and barely conscious of the cheering and the waving signs and the constant hoorah as people cheered on their favorites and those on whom they had wagered. His father told him later that day that people lined the roads from Bangor on. Up-country it wasn’t so interesting, and the road was strictly cordoned off—maybe so they could concentrate on being calm, as Barkovitch had said. But as time passed, it got better, of course.

When the Walkers passed through Freeport that year they had been on the road over seventy-two hours. Garraty had been ten and overwhelmed by everything. The Major had made a speech to the crowd while the boys were still five miles out of town. He began with Competition, progressed to Patriotism, and finished with something called the Gross National Product—Garraty had laughed at that, because to him gross meant something nasty, like boogers. He had eaten six hotdogs and when he finally saw the Walkers coming he had wet his pants.

One boy had been screaming. That was his most vivid memory. Every time he put his foot down he had screamed: I can’t. I CAN’T. I can’t. I CAN’T. But he went on walking. They all did, and pretty soon the last of them had gone past L.L. Bean’s on U.S. 1 and out of sight. Garraty had been mildly disappointed at not seeing anyone get a ticket. They had never gone to another Long Walk. Later that night Garraty had heard his father shouting thickly at someone into the telephone, the way he did when he was being drunk or political, and his mother in the background, her conspiratorial whisper, begging him to stop, please stop, before someone picked up the party line.

Garraty drank some more water and wondered how Barkovitch was making it.

They were passing more houses now. Families sat out on their front lawns, smiling, waving, drinking Coca-Colas.

Garraty, McVries said. My, my, look what you got.

A pretty girl of about sixteen in a white blouse and red-checked pedal pushers was holding up a big Magic Marker sign: GO-GO-GARRATY NUMBER 47 We Love You Ray Maine’s Own.

Garraty felt his heart swell. He suddenly knew he was going to win. The unnamed girl proved it.

Olson whistled wetly, and began to slide his stiff index finger rapidly in and out of his loosely curled fist. Garraty thought that was a pretty goddam sick thing to be doing.

To hell with Hint 13. Garraty ran over to the side of the road. The girl saw his number and squealed. She threw herself at him and kissed him hard. Garraty was suddenly, sweatily aroused. He kissed back vigorously. The girl poked her tongue into his mouth twice, delicately. Hardly aware of what he was doing, he put one hand on a round buttock and squeezed gently.

Warning! Warning 47!

Garraty stepped back and grinned. Thanks.

"Oh… oh… oh sure!" Her eyes were starry.

He tried to think of something else to say, but he could see the soldier opening his mouth to give him the second warning. He trotted back to his place, panting a little and grinning. He felt a little guilty after Hint 13 just the same, though.

Olson was also grinning. For that I would have taken three warnings.

Garraty didn’t answer, but he turned around and walked backward and waved to the girl. When she was out of sight he turned around and began to walk firmly. An hour before his warning would be gone. He must be careful not to get another one. But he felt good. He felt fit. He felt like he could walk all the way to Florida. He started to walk faster.

Ray. McVries was still smiling. What’s your hurry?

Yeah, that was right. Hint 6: Slow and easy does it. Thanks.

McVries went on smiling. Don’t thank me too much. I’m out to win, too.

Garraty stared at him, disconcerted.

I mean, let’s not put this on a Three Musketeers basis. I like you and it’s obvious you’re a big hit with the pretty girls. But if you fall over I won’t pick you up.

Yeah. He smiled back, but his smile felt lame.

On the other hand, Baker drawled softly, we’re all in this together and we might as well keep each other amused.

McVries smiled. Why not?

They came to an upslope and saved their breath for walking. Halfway up, Garraty took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. A few moments later they passed someone’s discarded sweater lying on the road. Someone, Garraty thought, is going to wish they had that tonight. Up ahead, a couple of the point Walkers were losing ground.

Garraty concentrated on picking them up and putting them down. He still felt good. He felt strong.

Chapter 2

"Now you have the money, Ellen, and

that’s yours to keep. Unless, of course,

you’d like to trade it for what’s behind the curtain."

—Monty Hall

Let’s Make a Deal

I’m Harkness. Number 49. You’re Garraty. Number 47. Right?

Garraty looked at Harkness, who wore glasses and had a crewcut. Harkness’s face was red and sweaty. That’s right.

Harkness had a notebook. He wrote Garraty’s name and number in it. The script was strange and jerky, bumping up and down as he walked. He ran into a fellow named Collie Parker who told him to watch where the fuck he was going. Garraty suppressed a smile.

I’m taking down everyone’s name and number, Harkness said. When he looked up, the midmorning sun sparkled on the lenses of his glasses, and Garraty had to squint to see his face. It was 10:30, and they were 8 miles out of Limestone, and they had only 1.75 miles to go to beat the record of the farthest distance traveled by a complete Long Walk group.

I suppose you’re wondering why I’m writing down everyone’s name and number, Harkness said.

You’re with the Squads, Olson cracked over his shoulder.

No, I’m going to write a book, Harkness said pleasantly. When this is all over, I’m going to write a book.

Garraty grinned. If you win you’re going to write a book, you mean.

Harkness shrugged. Yes, I suppose. But look at this: a book about the Long Walk from an insider’s point of view could make me a rich man.

McVries burst out laughing. If you win, you won’t need a book to make you a rich man, will you?

Harkness frowned. Well… I suppose not. But it would still make one heck of an interesting book, I think.

They walked on, and Harkness continued taking names and numbers. Most gave them willingly enough, joshing him about the great book.

Now they had come six miles. The word came back that it looked good for breaking the record. Garraty speculated briefly on why they should want to break the record anyhow. The quicker the competition dropped out, the better the odds became for those remaining. He supposed it was a matter of pride. The word also came back that thunder showers were forecast for the afternoon—someone had a transistor radio, Garraty supposed. If it was true, it was bad news. Early May thundershowers weren’t the warmest.

They kept walking.

McVries walked firmly, keeping his head up and swinging his arms slightly. He had tried the shoulder, but fighting the loose soil there had made him give it up. He hadn’t been warned, and if the knapsack was giving him any trouble or chafing, he showed no sign. His eyes were always searching the horizon. When they passed small clusters of people, he waved and smiled his thin-lipped smile. He showed no signs of tiring.

Baker ambled along, moving in a kind of knee-bent shuffle that seemed to cover the ground when you weren’t looking. He swung his coat idly, smiled at the pointing people, and sometimes whistled a low snatch of some tune or other. Garraty thought he looked like he could go on forever.

Olson wasn’t talking so much anymore, and every few moments he would bend one knee swiftly. Each time Garraty could hear the joint pop. Olson was stiffening up a little, Garraty thought, beginning to show six miles of walking. Garraty judged that one of his canteens must be almost empty. Olson would have to pee before too long.

Barkovitch kept up the same jerky pace, now ahead of the main group as if to catch up with the vanguard Walkers, now dropping back toward Stebbins’s position on drag. He lost one of his three warnings and gained it back five minutes later. Garraty decided he must like it there on the edge of nothing.

Stebbins just kept on walking off by himself. Garraty hadn’t seen him speak to anybody. He wondered if Stebbins was lonely or tired. He still thought Stebbins would fold up early—maybe first—although he didn’t know why he thought so. Stebbins had taken off the old green sweater, and he carried the last jelly sandwich in his hand. He looked at no one. His face was a mask.

They walked on.

The road was crossed by another, and policemen were holding up traffic as the Walkers passed. They saluted each Walker, and a couple of the boys, secure in their immunity, thumbed their noses. Garraty didn’t approve. He smiled and nodded to acknowledge the police and wondered if the police thought they were all crazy.

The cars honked, and then some woman yelled out to her son. She had parked beside the road, apparently waiting to make sure her boy was still along for the Walk.

"Percy! Percy!"

It was 31. He blushed, then waved a little, and then hurried on with his head slightly bent. The woman tried to run out into the road. The guards on the top deck of the halftrack stiffened, but one of the policemen caught her arm and restrained her gently. Then the road curved and the intersection was out of sight.

They passed across a wooden-slatted bridge. A small brook gurgled its way underneath. Garraty walked close to the railing, and looking over he could see, for just a moment, a distorted image of his own face.

They passed a sign which read LIMESTONE 7 MI. and then under a rippling banner which said LIMESTONE IS PROUD TO WELCOME THE LONG WALKERS. Garraty figured they had to be less than a mile from breaking the record.

Then the word came back, and this time the word was about a boy named Curley, number 7. Curley had a charley horse and had already picked up his first warning. Garraty put on some speed and came even with McVries and Olson. Where is he?

Olson jerked his thumb at a skinny, gangling boy in bluejeans. Curley had been trying to cultivate sideburns. The sideburns had failed. His lean and earnest face was now set in lines of terrific concentration, and he was staring at his right leg. He was favoring it. He was losing ground and his face showed it.

Warning! Warning 7!

Curley began to force himself faster. He was panting a little. As much from fear as from his exertions, Garraty thought. Garraty lost all track of time. He forgot everything but Curley. He watched him struggle, realizing in a numb sort of way that this might be his struggle an hour from now or a day from now.

It was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.

Curley fell back slowly, and several warnings were issued to others before the group realized they were adjusting to his speed in their fascination. Which meant Curley was very close to the edge.

Warning! Warning 7! Third warning, 7!

I’ve got a charley horse! Curley shouted hoarsely. It ain’t no fair if you’ve got a charley horse!

He was almost beside Garraty now. Garraty could see Curley’s adam’s apple going up and down. Curley was massaging his leg frantically. And Garraty

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